Possibilities
by Caitlin-Not-Cait
Summary: Elissa Cousland fell in love, and got her heart broken. Can she help it when she's wary about this new man, when it feels like the same old song with a brand new verse? Elissa Cousland/Cailan with future Elissa/Alistair planned.
1. Prologue

The first time Elissa met the king of Ferelden was at his coronation. She was fourteen, and dressed up as befitted the only daughter of the Teyrn of Highever, and standing close to the king, again, because protocol demanded it.

She remembers, to this day, how scared he looked, and sad.

Afterwards, he talked to her, smiled and nodded when she said "Congratulations" and "I'm sorry for your loss," and was quickly distracted by Anora, a lady-friend of hers, the daughter of the Teyrn of Gwaren. She remembered her father muttered something to Fergus about how that would be bad for Ferelden, that there were Teyrns to protect against coups and civil wars, and wondering why one would want to have a coup. According to Brother Aldous, people tended to die during coups and civil wars.

Her father had fussed with her hair and clothing and told her to go amuse the young king some more, and she had obliged, darting around a stone pillar and through a tiny servants' door she had seen him enter while her father and brother had been talking.

It led to the larder, which was convenient for the servants, she supposed. The king was curled behind some old sacking, crying and rocking in the corner.

"It'll be okay," she offered, creeping towards him.

He looked up at her. It was hard to remember he was even older than Fergus when he looked like that.

"I don't know what to do!" he said, quite unbecomingly, she thought. His cheeks were pink and smeared with tears. She drew out a handkerchief to hand to him.

"Well, I should think no king does. That's why he needs advisors—my father will certainly help you. And Anora's." She tried to ignore the way her delicate embroidery was being abused.

"Right," he said after a few more rounds with her handkerchief. "Right. I should return before I am missed. And you, young lady, should not go off to larders with older men." He smiled at her, looking much more kingly. She scowled at him, not the least because she hardly considered him to be a man.

When they emerged, she found Anora, and washed her hands of the boy, political consequences be damned. She could hardly be expected to marry _that_ baby.

She saw him frequently after that, as her father tried to make a case for their marriage, despite Teyrn Loghain's influence.

They sneaked off to the library sometimes, to the quiet little study, and he taught her many things about being a woman.

The memory of his kisses still warms her, and she tries to keep in mind that first impressions aren't everything. He taught her a man's touch, and she knows she's lucky it was someone as skilled and gentle as him, even if the thought is a little insulting—she deserved his undivided attention. Instead, she'd had marriage negotiations and his established lovers to contend with.

For a time, she disliked being nobility.

Then he announced his engagement to Anora, and she _loathed_ being nobility.

She learned to fight with the boys, imprinted a Mabari warhound, and generally made herself unmarriageble.

She thinks she might have been in love.


	2. Chapter 1

The journey from Highever to Ostagar may as well have taken them through the Fade, for all the attention Elissa paid it.

So while it seemed too little time had passed for them to be in Ostagar _already_, the tower loomed against the sky with a distinct silhouette, one she had learned when Brother Aldous had been drilling her on architecture. She nearly stumbled when she realized all over, with a sort of gut-clenching inevitability, that she would never see her parents again.

Something about the knowledge of the weeks that separated her from them seemed to hurt more than the initial physical separation.

Duncan caught her elbow before she could trip all the way, and all but dragged her inexorably onward. At Ostagar was her brother, Fergus, now Teyrn, now widower, now childless. And it was her duty to inform him, to admit to her failure. If only she had been willing to be married, she'd never have had this burden laid upon her.

The hound at her side growled at Duncan for touching his mistress, and nipped at the joint of his armor. She had a hazy recollection of the faithful minion drawing blood when Duncan had attempted to force-feed her, but blinked it away. "Down, Max."

The command was raspy, her voice hoarse from disuse. Duncan cast a sidelong glance her way, but quickly returned his gaze to the rough inclination of the path they were on, allowing here the barest hint of privacy. She wondered how long it had been since she had last spoken.

Max licked her hand enthusiastically, and she managed a smile at his antics.

They strode through the gates with very little ceremony. It seemed appropriate, she thought.

The king met them partway across the bridge, harried and rushed and pink cheeked, and Elissa fought her way through the layers of cotton protecting her mind from cold reality, just in time to hear Cailan say, warmly, falsely "Bryce Cousland's youngest? I don't believe we've ever actually met." in response to her introduction.

She allowed herself half a moment's scowling resentment at being ignored, at having her father accused of such a social faux pas as to never have presented his daughter to the king, before she firmly forced it down beneath the layers of her newfound stoicism.

"Are you not even aware that my father is dead?" she said, hating the way her throat clenched. Dead.

The word echoed through her head like an Abomination's spell... distracting and paralyzing and soul sucking, but she heard Cailan's promise for revenge, and felt his attention roaming critically over her person.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she said politely, voice coming more easily. She attempted a curtsy, but aborted it when she realized she wore mail and not a gown.

It was not five years ago, though the farce was the same.

He denied her desire to see her brother, for no reason that she could determine, and all she could think to do was smile and remember etiquette and decorum. This man meant nothing to her, _could_ mean nothing to her.

"I apologize; there is nothing more I can do. All I can suggest is you vent your grief at the Darkspawn for the time being."

She raised an eyebrow at him, wondering at his intentions with that remark. Was he angry with her for coming here as a warrior, or as a Grey Warden recruit? Was he genuinely apologetic and offering a pretty boon as a favor?

The puzzle his behavior presented fascinated her; though she had been better at it before, the art had grown rusty with disuse once she'd abandoned feminine wiles for swordplay. Those thoughts brought her fully into the present, and instead of her mother's pleading, her father's horrible, wheezing breaths and bloody coughing, she could hear Duncan and the king conversing, see their bright armor glinting in the sunlight.

She smiled more, and made more appropriate commentary, and otherwise succeeded in feigning interest.

Elissa tried not to gaze too obviously at the familiar back as Cailan jogged away again, off to save the world.

She'd seen fighting though, and she doubted Cailan knew what this Blight might mean.

Duncan ordered her to find a fellow named Alistair and check in with him. She wondered if she'd be assigned a tent, with an assigned cot, and limited rations and only one blanket, like her father's men were when they're on the march, but couldn't bring herself to ask. Duncan cut a forbidding figure. Perhaps this Alistair would be more approachable.

***

He wasn't.

Not through any fault of his own, as far as she could tell; but as she approached the figure that had been pointed out to her by the helpful merchant on the courtyard level, he turned just enough that she could see his face.

She stopped short. He carried on arguing with a disgruntled looking mage while she stared. One could easily mistake this man for Cailan.

Sure, his hair was short and practical, unlike the elegant style Cailan maintained, and his mail was dented and repaired and scuffed from wear, where Cailan wore polished, untried plate.

But he had the same cut to his jaw; the same slant to his eyes, though they were brown instead of grey; and the same carriage. Both were the sons of a king.

He noticed her staring, finally, and welcomed her as the newest Warden Recruit, and dropped vague hints about some sort of ritual they were supposed to undertake.

She feigned interest. It was a specialty of hers, often unused, and it had come into play twice today. She wondered if that was a failing on the men's part, or on hers.

It didn't seem to matter.

He made a clumsy little pass at her, and she deflected it with poise and courtesy, enjoying his blush. It seemed genuinely innocent.

"I suppose I should meet these other recruits then, shouldn't I?"

"Sure thing! Take your time, we don't have to leave until tomorrow, considering how late it is. I'll meet you at the rear gates then, just past sunrise?"

"Yes ser," she said, making a sketchy salute and allowing herself to smile when he laughed.

She wasn't going to find Ser Jory or Daveth. She was going to gain an audience with the king.

It took little effort to gain entry to his tent, where he had stripped off his armor and was bent over a desk, doing paperwork of some sort.

She cleared her throat delicately, waited for him to turn his attention to her.

"Elissa," he said warmly when he saw her. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

That made her hesitate. Why was she here?

"I'm not sure. You obviously remember me... why—"

"Oh, I didn't mean to upset you. I just thought perhaps you wouldn't want Duncan to know of our previous, ah, acquaintance? You may be his recruit, but you are still a woman."

She remembered their first meeting, him saying she shouldn't be alone with a man. Always the white knight, then, she thought drily.

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

He chuckled. "Call me Cailan, Elissa."

"Thank you, Cailan," she said, voice dripping with irony.

He stood slowly, stretched his back and groaned before taking a step over to where she was standing. "You cut your hair," he noted, reaching to tug at the short ponytail she had bunched it into. "I like it." He smiled his most charming smile, and she smiled back.

"Mother didn't. She despaired of my ever marrying."

"Do Wardens marry?" he mused. "I never cared to check." He touched her cheek.

"I suppose they might, for love."

"Little Elissa, ever the romantic," he said, before tilting her head back so he could kiss her.

It was the same, and yet, so different. She remembered this, and knew how to respond, parting her lips and whining a little bit, pushing into his personal space so her breasts pressed against his chest, just as muscular as before.

He pulled back to smile at her, and to ask permission. "May I undress you?" he said, voice low and growling, almost palpable. She shivered and nodded her assent.

"Only if I may undress you," she added with a low chuckle.

"Of course, darling."

He stripped her clothes off sensually, kissing every inch of skin as it was exposed, leaving her trembling with want.

She sighed and leaned in for another long, intimate kiss before she relieved him of his own clothes.

She spent a long moment admiring him with a heated gaze until—"Come here," Cailan growled, and dragged her against him. His lips roamed along her throat, sucking bites into her skin. His hands were busy elsewhere.

He freed her hair, let it fall in waves around her shoulders, and let his hands caress along her spine to cup her backside.

She cupped his face with her hands, drew him back up for a proper kiss, and contented herself with that.

Then, his roving hands slid around her torso, gently caressing her abdomen before one sank lower, lower still to cup her sex.

She pulled her mouth away from his and bit her lip to keep from whining at him, but he sensed her reaction, laughed, low and sensual, against her cheek.

"Good?"

"Yes, yes!" she sighed.

He pulled away, drew her to the cot at the edge of the tent, laid her down on it. She spread her legs, knees bent, and smiled up at him, welcoming.

"Eager, aren't you, darling?"

"Tomorrow I might die," she responded gaily. A dark expression flickered across his face momentarily, but he smiled at her in return.

"You'll make an excellent Grey Warden," he said. "I envy you the chance."

She pulled on his hand until he came to her so she could kiss him into silence.

She stroked his muscled back, kneading the skin to elicit groans of pleasure, while he brought his hand down between her legs with practiced grace.

He broke the kiss just long enough to say her name, and then his fingers were doing lovely things to her, wrenching out whimpering moans.

"Please," she said finally, unable to take any more of this... this teasing. She knew he was waiting for her to be absolutely ready, because he always did; but she _was_ ready, and impatient.

He obliged her demand, pushing into her slowly, breaking their kiss to bury his face in the spread of her hair, groaning.

She arched her back, pushing back against him, heady with want and need and desire. She could have this much, _would_ have this much.

After a moment of breathless stillness, Cailan pulled out a little, and began thrusting with a slow, tender rhythm, one she easily matched. His hand remained between them, doing delicious things to her.

He brought her to orgasm slowly and exquisitely, forcing her to cry out and clutch at him as she rode through it. His smile after she came, self-satisfied and genuine, was exactly as she remembered it.

He thrust into her a few more times before finding his own release with a guttural groan, a hand on her bicep pressing fingers so tight as to leave a ring of bruises. He collapsed, boneless, on top of her, petting at her hair and saying her name over and over like a benediction.

After a few minutes, he shifted. She protested weakly, "Don't go,"

"We can't sleep like this."

"I don't want to sleep," she said.

"And I don't want to crush you." He pulled off of her, handed her a blanket that had landed on the carpeted floor of the tent. She wrapped it around herself, already suppressing shivers after losing the heat from his body.

She pulled herself off the bed and onto the floor, curled up in the blanket.

Max came to her eagerly from where he'd been laying across the tent flap. She let him lick her fingers and face, scratched him behind the ears and felt guilty for not having treats.

Cailan watched them from near the desk, and she couldn't help the way her gaze kept returning to him.

Finally, he joined her on the floor, grabbing a second blanket and sprawling haphazardly next to her.

"A Mabari warhound," he said.

"His name is Max." Max looked up.

"I see," Cailan said, then. "Max, do you want a treat?"

Max's ears perked, his tail wagged even more fiercely, thudding against the carpet. Cailan held out a handful of Mabari treats and Max climbed over her lap to get at them. She laughed.

"Good boy," Cailan said, before laughing himself.

The comfortable silence lasted for several minutes, Max happily jumping from lap to lap to soak up the attention, before Cailan interrupted it.

"I'm sorry, you know, about your parents... and about Fergus. Loghain suggested I send them out scouting straight away, and I never thought..."

She reached to take his hand. "It's okay. Duncan and I should have easily beaten the army here but I was not myself."

"You should write him a letter, at the very least. As you said, this might be your last night on earth. And it is probably better he read it in his sister's hand than hear it from a bare acquaintance's lips."

And Cailan would know, she mused. She wondered idly who had informed him of his father's disappearance and presumed death.

"Thank you, Cailan." This time, her voice held no irony.


	3. Chapter 2

The Darkspawn were vile, twisted mockeries of nature. She had long since lost track of where they were, of their mission. All that remained was the heft of her family sword, the spray of black, foul blood over her armor, marring the Cousland crest she had so proudly polished just that morning.

She fought with two other recruits, an old knight from Redcliffe who bemoaned his wife's plight, pregnant and alone, even as he eyed her with doubts obviously stemming from her own sex. Well, she was hardly pregnant, and knew exactly how to fight invaders.

It felt colder, this fighting, without the thoughts of those she loved to ignite her rage and desperation. This was somehow less, and somehow more. Oriana and Oren were dead. Mother and father were dead. So instead of fighting for them, she was fighting for all of Ferelden.

She ducked a wildly cast magical bolt of some sort, came up with her sword and enough momentum to bury it in the creature's chest. Hurlock, Alistair had said. The name fit.

She used her foot to aid in releasing her sword, turned to finish the next foe just in time to see Daveth stab it in the back, killing it and saving them from its Fade-forsaken magics.

Panting, she cast her gaze around. There were none left to come after them. She flexed a gauntleted fist, glared at the blood there.

She wished Max were at her side.

Alistair looked at her then, direct and unflinching, and shivers crawled along her spine. So like Cailan when he had awakened her this morning.

"_You have to go, darling. Duncan waits for no one," he had chuckled, petted her hair._

"_I'm to go with Alistair." Cailan's smile slipped. So he knew then. She wondered if Alistair knew. It could go either way, depending._

"_He is a fine Warden, I hear—Duncan speaks highly of him."_

_And your gut burns with jealousy, Cailan, she thought unkindly. "He seems fair enough, though I hear he likes to bait the mages."_

_Cailan shrugged. "I had your armor brought here, I hope you don't mind. And Duncan said the hound wouldn't be permitted to accompany you. I thought perhaps he'd like to help me with my paperwork?"_

_She smiled, went along with the subject change. "You'll make him fat," she protested, even as she wondered why Duncan would want to separate her from her only friend._

"_Only if you don't come back to collect him," Cailan said seriously._

"_I'll come back," she promised, even though she didn't believe it herself._

She shook her head, wondering why everything seemed so far away. Alistair was crouched over her now, but she could barely hear him over the roar in her ears. Someone was tugging at her helmet, and she tried to lash out at him, because it _hurt_.

Alistair pried open her lips, pushed bitter-tasting elfroot into her mouth. She understood a little now. She chewed waiting for the magic of the plant to kick in, waiting for the numbness she remembered from when she had been small and broken an arm.

They were wrapping her head now, pressing the poultices the mages made to the crack in her skull and she whimpered, but had no strength to pull away. Alistair cupped a hand over her cheek and told her to relax, let the magic do its job. He lied and told her she would be alright, even as he wrenched his gaze from hers and barked out more orders to the other recruits. They'd take a break while she recovered, he said. Then they'd find the scrolls for Duncan and return.

She wondered how Fergus was doing.

By the time the small cook fire had been started and lunch had been broken out of travel packs, she was feeling well enough to sit up, though she still felt a little queasy.

She stripped off her gloves, flexing her fingers and staring at them, wondering why they were so clean. The rest of her had been covered in blood. It seemed incongruous that only her hands might be clean.

"Feeling better?" Alistair asked, and she wrenched her attention towards him.

"Yes, ser," she said.

"Not a ser," he said.

She mustered a smile. What were they supposed to do next, make small talk? She doubted he cared about the latest fashion in Orlais or the Antivan boots her mother had received for her wedding anniversary.

"We've got enough Darkspawn blood," he said after a few moments of awkward silence. "If you're feeling well enough, I'd like to continue on to collect those treaties. They may offer a huge tactical advantage later."

Intrigued, she asked "So you agree with Duncan then? This is a real Blight, not some minor incursion?"

"Yes," he said with quiet conviction, expression open and earnest, which did more to settle her opinion on the matter than Duncan's brusque dismissal of her questions or Cailan's bluster and bravado. Still, she didn't dare ask him how he knew.

***

The first thing Elissa noticed about the woman was her inappropriate attire. Elissa might dress like a man, but she'd never bare so much skin. It seemed somehow undignified.

The second thing Elissa noticed was the deliberate wordplay. The woman wanted to be feared, which instantly seemed to indicate that the woman wasn't any stronger than they were. She looked over her shoulder to see if any of the men had noticed that too.

They seemed entranced. Elissa suppressed the weird sick feeling of jealousy she felt at that, and focused again on the woman.

A proper, 'civilized' greeting was something Elissa could manage. The woman, Morrigan seemed surprised. She covered it well, and Alistair tried to shove his foot firmly in his mouth. Again.

Morrigan's mother had a cold, powerful presence, but she handed them the treaties, sent them on their way with Morrigan to guide them.

"Do you know any woodcraft lore you'd want to share with us?" Elissa asked politely. "Only I'm not terribly confident of my own skills. I can tell elfroot from deathroot, but that's about it."

"What I know of herbalism would make you cringe, little girl." Morrigan had taken to calling her that, but Elissa refused to be intimidated. The poor woman was likely unaccustomed to being ordered around and resented the necessity of joining them.

"That's a no then," she said cheerfully. Alistair smothered a laugh in his hand, and Ser Jory scoffed. Elissa was sure he was going to make his opinions clear once again when Morrigan spoke again.

"'Twas not a no. I simply wished to make it clear that I could not teach _anyone_ all I know in so little a time as this."

"I'm not worried about being an expert, I just want to know what's edible, and what's useful for healing maybe."

Morrigan softened toward her a little, and spent the trip pointing out various plants and offering anecdotes about when one might use them. 'If a giant bear is running toward you full tilt, one might consider throwing the crushed leaves of this plant in its eyes to confuse it. Or, you could simply draw your sword and slay it.'

Even Alistair seemed less inclined to kill her by the time they had returned to Ostagar.

***

The Joining is barbaric. It is all she can to not vomit on the flags when Ser Jory is killed out of hand, but she knows her choices here, and will not falter. Better to face the unknown than certain death, right? No one answers her silent question, but Alistair's eyes are on her, she knows.

She drinks from the cup.

***

Her every sense prickled with the nightmare knowledge that has come to her, though now she knew why the two Wardens are so utterly convinced there is a Blight. She allowed Alistair to help her to her feet, thanked him with slurred words.

The conversation between Loghain and Cailan was heated when they arrived at the War Council. Loghain seemed genuinely frustrated, and he eyed her with disgust as she approaches.

Cailan feigned ignorance over her identity again and she watched as Loghain sneered—and let it pass. He was pretending all was well between Cailan and Anora then, which was understandable, if not laudable.

Cailan insisted that she not be in the bulk of the fighting forces when the army meets the Darkspawn, and hot resentment bubbled up in her.

"Is it so important a task, then, that you need a Grey Warden to do it? Why not have one of the men already on duty in the tower take care of it?"

"It is of critical importance to the campaign. I would not insist if it weren't." His expression was pleading.

Alistair, too, was resentful, but she rather doubted his reasons were the same.

Cailan dismissed them, but held her back.

"I don't want you hurt, you understand. The other two... when I think how easily that could have been you, it's painful."

Elissa shook her head. "You aren't _allowed_. You can't say those things to me, it's too late." She knew she should have made this stand last night, but she had been weak then. Now... "You already picked Anora, and I won't—after this is over, I won't come back. I won't be a favored mistress, not when I could have been so much more, and you already _picked._"

He jerked away, taken aback. Elissa blinked to stop the tears from falling. She had already shed too many tears on this matter, and Cailan already thought her weak and incapable.

"Elissa, darling, I wish you would understand. My position, it's not—"

"I don't want to hear it," she said, her voice trembling with the effort it took not to shout. "I don't care anymore. I can't care, I won't!" She turned her head away from his, not wanting to see the look on his face, not wanting to let him see hers.

He pulled her against him, armor against armor, hard and cold and horrible. "I'm sorry. If that's worth anything to you, anything at all, know that it is true. I'm sorry, Elissa." He kissed her forehead, then pushed her away gently. "You should go. The scouts' reports say it should be soon."

She nodded and turned to go, heart heavy. She had a beacon to light.

***

She knew they would be too late when she saw the soldiers fleeing from the tower in terror. She gritted her teeth and stalked on anyway, Max snarling at her side.

She hated the look of the tower, booby-trapped and barricaded against would-be-defenders, but she fought and killed and watched Alistair do the same, while Max stayed where she'd told him—"Guard the mage." They hadn't had enough time to exchange names, but damned if she'd let one more person die.

Alistair grinned at her through blood soaking his face. She didn't dare wonder if it was his.

They hesitated in stairways and rooms with barrable doors to catch their breath, to make sure nothing was bleeding too heavily, to pray. Alistair knew a great many prayers appropriate for battle, she learned.

On the third floor, mabari whined and strained against bars in cages, and Max whined with them. She released them, to die with dignity, and they tore down the enemy with a fervor she'd long since lost. The mage laughed darkly when one brought him the head of one of the darkspawn mages. He didn't make a sound when the same hound was cut down a few moments later, its dying screams meshing with the rest in a haunting choir of death.

Max hunkered down next to her, and she allowed herself a moment of mourning, laid her hand against his head. The next thing she could tell, a genlock was dead on top of her, throat ripped out, and Alistair was straining to hold Max back so the mage could drag her free.

When they had won clear to the beacon, Alistair cried out that it was too late, but she lit it anyway, with hope in her heart that somehow, some way, the army might survive, that _he_ might survive. Lit it and watched as nothing changed below.

Then they were overrun, and she felt a sense of profound failure before she knew no more.


	4. Chapter 3

Elissa woke with a startled gasp, sitting straight up in bed. The woman from the wilds—Morrigan, she recalled, smiled at her in a pained sort of way.

"I'm... not dead?" she asked again after Morrigan finished her blasé reassurances.

"No, you are quite alive. Your companion as well."

"Alistair," she mumbled. Alistair had survived, as had she. No one else. Cailan was dead.

"Loghain left the field," she mused. "I remember lighting the beacon and wondering why nothing happened."

"Please, get dressed and join us outside."

Elissa nodded absently, not watching Morrigan leave.

She allowed herself precisely ten heartbeats to mourn Cailan's death. Whether Fergus was alive, she'd not know for some time it seemed. It took her only five heartbeats to work through the emotion stirred by that revelation. She was becoming far more adept with her emotions these days, she thought.

Pulling on her armor and strapping on her daggers made her feel whole again, potent.

Ready to face the world.

***

Alistair was sitting in quiet contemplation at the edge of the—well, it wasn't exactly a lake, was it? The wetter part of the marsh?

He tried to distract himself with that thought, but it only lasted for a moment before everything else came crashing back in. He could hear the apostate—Morrigan, he corrected himself. They had saved his life after all, and Elissa's, or so they claimed. She was speaking to her mother in low tones behind him, but he didn't really care enough to try to listen.

He plucked some of the marsh grass and played with it, braiding it into a little wristlet, weaving in the tiny white flowers Morrigan had told Elissa meant the water was fresh. Before he could cast it away to dwell on his grief again, a soft shoulder bumped against his.

He looked up to see Elissa, face drawn with some negative emotion he wasn't prepared to analyze. "Here—it's pretty dry right here. Have a seat," he said patting the soft ground beside him. She sighed heavily and sat. He couldn't help but notice that she wore her armor already, and wondered if she'd get a chance to wear a pretty dress again. If he'd get to see her as she had been—a lady and not a warrior.

The wristlet was still in his hands, he turned it around and around and waited for her to say something trite and comforting.

After a few moments of silence, she touched the back of his hand. "May I?" she asked. He looked up at her, allowed her a brief instant of eye contact.

He handed her the wristlet. "I was bored," he mumbled, defensive.

"I quite like it," she said neutrally. "The flowers are a nice touch."

"Really?" he asked, voice squeaking with an emotion he had to suppress quickly. One emotion breaking the dam would bring the whole lot of them into the open, and now was _not_ the time. "I mean, you can have it, if you like." He coughed to loosen the tightness in his throat.

She handed him back the wristlet, offered him her wrist with all the delicacy and breeding she'd been born to, and Alistair felt clumsy and brutish when faced with it. Still, he managed to tie the wristlet around her wrist and successfully tuck in the ends without breaking the fragile stems or trembling too much, and still, no mention of how he must be _feeling_ about recent events.

"I, uh..." he tried. "I'm not sure what we should do next. We can't stay here forever, idyllic as a hut in the middle of a swamp populated by apostates might be. But I don't know... Maybe we should go to Redcliffe?"

"The Arling?" she asked, but it was more musing than querying, so he remained silent. Finally she shifted to look up at him, dark eyes completely shuttered. "Arl Eamon? Is that wise? If this was a coup, do we, as Grey Wardens, really have the right to choose a side? And if so, which side is Arl Eamon on?"

"Coup?" Alistair asked.

"Yes. Loghain _withdrew_. He deliberately left the king for dead on the field. If that isn't a coup, then I don't know what is." She dropped her gaze, rotated the wristlet on her arm a couple times. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't snap at you like that. I'm just."

"Cailan knew you, didn't he? The mabari came out of his tent when we came back from the Wilds."

Elissa shook her head, blonde braid falling across her cheek. "Yes," she said. "I knew him before. He came, sometimes, to Highever."

"I understand. Duncan was like a father to me, you know."

Elissa nodded. "I want to take sides," she admitted. "I do. I want to see Loghain dead, and Rendon Howe. I want—" she clenched her hands into fists, looked back up at Alistair. "I want to do it myself, too."

Alistair felt himself grinning in response, not a happy grin. He imagined it mirrored the fierce expression on her face.

"Maybe the witches will have some supplies or something to help us," she said, finally.

"Yes," he agreed, hauling himself to his feet and offering her a hand up. "Or at the very least they'll have cryptic advice and a riddle."

***

They left Lothering with a feeling that might have been relief, having gained two more allies and lost little.

Elissa had written another letter to her brother, left in the Dane's Refuge in hopes that he had lived and that he would seek refuge there. She had kept what remained of her own gold, salvaged from the treasury, and instead spent money from bartered goods, war trophies and trinkets found in refugee's packs, to outfit her newest troops.

And they were, unmistakably, her troops. Alistair was still mired in his grief, and in his unwillingness to lead anyone anywhere. She tried not to think of the inevitability that would come, of placing the man on the throne. Ferelden seemed in dire straits indeed.

She wondered when she would be forced to tell him who he was, and who he must become. She didn't not look forward to that.

They made camp by a creek that flowed black from the south, and she tried not to gag at the further evidence of the Blight. Damn Loghain.

Alistair approached her, unsubtle and uneasy. She tried to smile up at him, to be the leader he had forced her to become, that she had been bred to be.

He rested a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She shook her head. "Don't be."

"You don't even know what I am sorry for!"

"I can guess though," she said, turning to face him. He looked exhausted, dark circles ringed his eyes, his smile was as forced as hers, and there were still flecks of blood in his hair.

"Yeah, I guess you can."

She resisted the urge to scream at him, to draw her sword and tell him to just get over it already... but she had had weeks and a journey and a goal to get through her grief, to learn to bury the pain. He'd had nothing so useful as that.

She took his hand in hers, pressed the little token she'd found in one of the broken crates around the dwarf merchant's wreck of a caravan against his palm.

He closed his fist around it.

"Is this... how could you possibly..." he smiled at her, genuine pleasure. "Look at his little face!"

She laughed. "I wasn't sure—I liked him. And I liked..." she brandished her wrist, still adorned by the little wristlet. The little white flowers had dried, but still held their charm, and the braid had become more pronounced.

Alistair blushed. "You deserve the jewels of a thousand kings," he whispered reverently.

"This is far more befitting a title-less, landless Warden, I think."

"It won't last much longer."

She shrugged, glancing back at the befouled water, not saying the obvious 'will we?'

He clapped a hand against her shoulder. "Time for sleep," he said. "Sten called first watch."

She nodded and allowed him to guide her back to the fireside.


End file.
